“What have I done that I should get this favor?”
George said half aloud.

“That’s so characteristic!” Edgar
exclaimed. “Why must you always be doing
things? Do you imagine that whatever one receives
is the result of so much exertion?”

“I don’t feel the least interest in such
quibbles.”

“I can’t believe it,” Edgar rejoined.
“You’re more at home when you have a
fence to put up, or a strip of new land to break.”
Then he dropped his bantering tone. “There’s
nothing to be distressed about. Grant has been
pretty generous, and I think he and Flora need thanking.”

“In my opinion, the sensation’s quite
unnecessary. You have given a few people a lift
in your time, and I’ve an optimistic notion that
actions of the kind recoil on one, even though it’s
a different person who makes you some return.”

“I wish you would stop talking!” George
exclaimed impatiently.

Edgar mentally compared Flora Grant with Sylvia, in
whom he disbelieved, and found it hard to restrain
himself. It was, he felt, a great misfortune
that George could not be made to see.

“Oh, well!” he acquiesced. “I
could say a good deal more, if I thought it would
do any good, but as that doesn’t seem likely
I’ll dry up.”

“That’s a comfort,” George said
shortly.

He left the granary in a thoughtful mood, and on the
following evening drove over to the Grant homestead.
Its owner was busy somewhere outside when he reached
it, but Flora received him and he sat down with satisfaction
to talk to her. It had become a pleasure to visit
the Grants; he felt at home in their house.
The absence of all ceremony, the simple Canadian life,
had a growing attraction for him. One could
get to know these people, which was a different thing